


you've got the juice, baby (that's why i keep pressin' ya)

by safeandsound13



Series: and all at once, you are the one i've been waiting for (king of my heart, body and soul) [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bartender!Bellamy, Best friend's brother, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Modern AU, Octavia Ships It, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Royalty, Sexual Tension, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and listen..i take it back, bellamy and kids, guard!Bellamy, history nerd!Bellamy, is maybe better, just weed but its happenin!, princess!clarke, really this is just a collection of a few shameless tropes, stupidly soft blarke, which have clarke secretly thirsting after bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: She leans forward, voice low and dark. His eyes land on her chest and linger just a little too long. She almost reaches out to grab him by the shirt, but figures that might be a little too hardcore. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, nor do I care. Just know this—I will win.”He blinks at her, unimpressed. He huffs, smirking a little, then narrows his eyes at her. “Brave princess, huh?”“You don’t know me,” she bites back, throat tight with anger, chest tight fron injustice. God, she wants to punch him in the face so bad. She hates her vagina for trying to convince her of anything different.Or: a modern AU in which Clarke is a princess from a small country nobody's heard of, comes to Polis University to escape her royal life for a semester but one (1) annoying Bellamy Blake won't stop trying being a pain in her ass and ruining her cover.





	you've got the juice, baby (that's why i keep pressin' ya)

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on the prompt: "I’m a prince/ss from a small country nobody’s heard of and i’m in college pretending not to be royal and you’re another student who’s always calling me out on my bs” AU. y'all know i dont play well with rules so i switched up like always.
> 
> i know nothing. zero. monarchies and soccer and ? no clue. so please forgive me for any mistakes, but this is an AU so i guess it really don't matter anyway :)
> 
> so.... 5x03 is coming up and its apparently a love letter to my man bellamy blake and yall also know the blorke reunion is happening in tHE SAME EPISODE... my hormone balance has been off the charts ever since it was confirmed.....if i dont make it tuesday... know i died happy
> 
> song in title is juice by chromeo
> 
> PS im bad at english so take a shot every time it says 'royal protocol'. *gina linetti voice* mhmmmkay bYE

 

* * *

Most young girls wanted to be princesses when they grew up, and not to pit herself against the majority of the female population, but—Clarke, she just wanted to be normal. Because she already was a princess.

 

When she found out that wasn’t really an option when you’re royalty, she decided she wanted to become a doctor or a nurse, or anything that allowed her to help and heal people, really. That was off the table as soon as she was made aware she could never combine her royal activities with a hectic job in healthcare, not even considering the fact people would never be able to be truly honest with her. Who wants to tell their resident princess about their erectile dysfunction, or that her treatment plan sucks when she could technically kick you out of the country?

 

Not becoming an artist, though, that was more of a narcissistic decision than anything else. How would she ever be certain people bought her art because they liked it, not just because she was princess Clarke Griffin and it would make for good dinner conversation?

 

Also, she’d have _no_ artistic freedom. Having a girlfriend was enough of a scandal, selling a naked painting of said girlfriend was probably crossing the line. Not that she ever cared about crossing any lines, but she loved her people more. If she wanted to give them a better life once she got to reign, she could not afford being boycotted at meetings with big, homophobic countries or them cutting of their oil supply or breaking trade deals her country was dependent on. It sucked, but it was reality.

 

She still released the occasional anonymous painting or online drawing but since without the royal connections she didn’t really know anyone, she mostly remained just that. Anonymous.

 

So, normal—that was the dream. But, college—that was the next best thing. That could be a _reality_ . A chance to make friends, and party, and to _not_ be homeschooled, and to study shit she’ll never use a single day in her life but actually interests her. It would be amazing.

 

Mostly, in fact, it felt isolated. She just had particularly polite conversations with other students because no one dared to actually have a real conversation with her in fear of offending her and those who sometimes did always had an ulterior motive; teachers were afraid to contradict her or give her grades lower than A’s and A+'s even when she purposely handed in papers that were copied straight from wikipedia; boys _and_ girls wanted to hook-up with her, sure, but they mostly wanted to go down on Clarke Griffin, Your Royal Highness, not just _Clarke_. It might seem like a futile difference to most because consenting oral sex was consenting oral sex, right, but it felt surprisingly lonely. Overall it was a fake experience, nothing was real about it.

 

When it was time for her to pick a minor, she decided to just fuck it. Clarke Griffin—not princess Clarke, or King and Queen Griffin’s daughter Clarke, or Arkadia’s number 1 citizen—she was going abroad. She was going to find the most remote college in the farthest available English speaking country and she was going to have a Real Fucking College experience.

 

“Absolutely not,” Abby dismisses her immediately, grip on her glass of wine tight as Clarke finally brings it up during one of their weekly family dinners. “It’s way too dangerous.”

 

You’d think being a 21 year old princess would give you some sort of autonomy when it comes to making decisions, but it’s quite the opposite. Her mother isn’t just her mother, she is also the Queen of the country she lives in. Without lifting a single finger or even relatively breaking a sweat, she could block her passport faster than Clarke could drive to their only existing airport, which by itself only takes about ten minutes to begin with.

 

“Please, mom. Even our neighbouring countries forget we exist sometimes,” Clarke furrows her brow together, pinching the bridge of her nose. She gets her stubbornness from her mother, and whenever they argue, that’s a problem. “The other day the president of Belgium called us Arquada while dad was _literally_ a feet away from him?”

 

Jake snickers while he chews on a bite of steak and Clarke bites down a smile. Even her bodyguard, Mr. Miller, has to badly cover up a chuckle with a cough. Her mom will certainly not appreciate any smugness.

 

“It was an honest mistake,” her mom decides, stabbing a potato with her fork before deciding on taking another swig of her wine instead. “For which he apologized.”

 

“I was shaking his hand, Abby,” Jake cuts in, intently cutting his steak as he avoids eye-contact. He’s not ready to face her wrath for not backing her up, apparently. “My name tag said Jake Griffin, King of Arkadia.”

 

“Well,” Abby mutters, eyes turning into slits as her voice becomes more stern, cutting up her potato more violently than necessary. “Belgium’s president’s an idiot, so that’s not a fair argument, is it?”

 

“Mom,” Clarke reaches out, putting her hand over her mother’s, voice . “I’m not going to pretend like I haven’t had a good life for the past 21 years, because I have. I’m privileged in ways I probably don’t even understand. I grew up rich, in more ways than I can fathom, and loved. Incredibly loved.” Her mom’s eyes soften, as she shifts her hand so her palm’s touching Clarke’s, thumb rubbing her fair skin gently.

 

“But,” she starts, licking her lips as she watches her mother raise her eyebrows, any sign of endearment gone. “In return for that, I also grew up lonely, and isolated. So for once, just once—just six tiny months, tops, I would want to experience life as a regular person. As me. Just Clarke, not your daughter.”

 

“You had Nathan,” her mom starts, not ready to give in, but her voice is too tender and apologetic, but also a little like she’s trying to reassure herself, “And Roan.” At the mention of the last name even her mom looks a little skeptical.

 

Besides the fact that her and Nate only hung out because his dad was her personal babysitter and they didn’t really have anything in common besides their awkward pre-teen Gay feelings, and their friendship nowadays just mostly exists because they send each other memes once a week while he’s studying in France, living together with his hotshot model boyfriend. Besides the fact she only sees Roan—prince of Azgeda, another one of those little countries nobody cares about, who she dated once, for three seconds when she was seven—roughly five times a year because the South Pole isn’t exactly around the corner. Besides the fact she loves both of them, very dearly, in very different ways, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a _life_.

 

“I know, and I’m thankful for them and I’d never want to lose them but—shit, mom, having two friends you barely see doesn’t really qualify as normal.”

 

“Clarke, language,” her mom immediately responds, almost automatic, eyes finding her dad’s, who just raises his eyebrows at her. Jake was always on his daughter’s side, so this was never a conversation between her and her parents, it was always a conversation between her and her mom. Finally, she turns back to Clarke, lips pursed in thought.

 

“If she had a Facebook page, she would have four friends, Abby. Including us. You’ve got to admit that’s a little sad,” Jake cuts in, half-joking, reaching out to put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Clarke sends him a thankful smile, but Abby’s eyes don’t leave her face.

 

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, after what seems like an eternity. “You should have two guards by your side at any time, you have to call me once a day, I want full reports on your academic progress once a week and if your cover ever gets blown—you come home immediately, no exceptions.”

 

Clarke stopped listening about a second after the word ‘fine’ came out of her mother’s mouth, already rushing around the table to kneel by her side and kiss her face about ten thousand times. “Thank you, so much, you guys will _not_ regret this.”

 

“I trust you, Clarke,” Abby responds, firm, giving her a thoughtful look before she brushes a strand of Clarke’s blonde hair back behind her ear. Some would think it was a sweet thing to say and Clarke’s always had a huge responsibility ever since the day she was born so an ‘I trust you’ doesn’t feel like a huge burden, but she knows in her mother’s language, it comes closer to a ‘don’t fuck this up, Clarke’. Because of politics and her safety and God knows what else.

 

“It’s just Pennsylvania, mom. What could possibly happen?”

 

.

Her first day, Clarke is hyper aware of everyone, and their reactions to her and what she says and does. She probably comes across as some stiff, weird, paranoid conspiracy theorist, but she makes no apologies. Better to be safe than sorry.

 

The day ends with her in a crappy dorm room bed without anyone exposing her for the fraud she is, which leaves Clarke with nothing but the cold, harsh reality that no one actually cares about her. Which is, honestly, the greatest thing ever. Being a nobody? That’s her number one dream coming true, right there.

 

She has to wear a panic button 24/7 and live with the thought that Mr. Miller and her other favorite guard, Mr. Sinclair, are occupying the room beside her even though it has very thin walls and she’s planning on having a very active sex life, but other than that—she is truly Living.

 

Clarke hadn’t considered the fact that being a princess wasn’t the only requirement for being a loner. She never learned how to make friends, and since she’s enrolling in a third year course in the middle of a school year, everyone has practically chosen their flock. She doesn’t even know if she has a likeable personality.

 

On her second day of the introduction week, Clarke decides she has to try a little harder than just being present.

 

She’s at her first introductory lecture of the day when a girl comes in twenty minutes late with a green smoothie and sits down next to her. She looks relatively young to be a third year, but it might just be the fact that she’s not wearing eyeliner with elaborate wing designs. Polis University has a surprisingly big population of goths. There’s _so_ much eye-makeup.

 

Clarke just nods at her, but she’s not convinced she doesn’t look incredibly awkward. “Long line at the cafeteria?”

 

The girl looks at her, eyebrows raised as she takes a long, loud sip from her smoothie before answering her. “Nah, I was just having sex with our TA and we lost track of time.”

 

Clarke eyes widen a little and as if on cue, a broad, tattooed guy rushes in from the downstairs door, whispering apologies to their professor—who looks super apathetic—before sitting down at the TA desk and getting out a bunch of papers. It’s bold move, sure, but hey, this is America—anything’s possible and Clarke doesn’t do slutshaming.

 

“Good for you,” Clarke retorts, still eyeing their TA appreciatively. The tattoos contrast sharply with his crisp, white dress shirt and suit vest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. For a second, she thinks she might have offended her and too much of Clarke’s abrasiveness has shown through.

 

Then, the brunette’s side of her mouth quirks up a little, taking another loud sip of her drink before informing her, “Hey, he’s mine, but if you want professor Wallace—I’m sure I could arrange something, you know, get in a good word.”

 

“And then we could double-date?” She snorts, earning a few bothered glances from people that are actually paying attention, before continuing. “I’m not really sure entitled, superior artist complex is my type, but thanks.”

 

She tosses her long brown hair over her shoulder, looking unimpressed. “He compared himself to Van Gogh again?”

 

Clarke smiles a tight lipped uncomfortable smile. “He had a Powerpoint slide comparing their work and everything.”

 

“I’m Octavia,” the girl offers, beaming and Clarke looks at her hand before she shakes it.

“I’m Clarke.” She adds, “Exchange student,” as an afterthought, because she’s not actually sure how much is normal to reveal and since she doesn’t really know who Clarke without the Princess is yet, it makes up most of her personality.

 

Wallace clears his throat at that point, looking directly at them and Clarke shoots him an apologetic glance while Octavia just cocks a disinterested eyebrow before he continues his lecture with a firm, “Anyway, my expertise on the matter obviously proves the use of a limited colour palette and relatively little diversity in shape means his work was fine, at best.”

 

“Did he just roast Picasso?” Clarke leans a little closer to the other girl, not taking her eyes of Wallace in complete and utter disbelief as he uses his laser pointer to illustrate the lack of shapes in the painting on the board behind him.

 

“Yep,” Octavia responds, popping the p, and they both snicker before earning another warning glance from their professor. “Welcome to Global slash Wallace’s Perspectives in Modern Art 101.”

 

Nothing really comes of their conversation at first, but it’s nice, talking to someone like regular people, about normal topics that aren’t global warming or the rising numbers of unemployment in her country.

 

Then one day, Octavia finds her in the quad—Clarke’s sitting on the grass during her lunch break, failing at sketching a first concept of a sculpture she wants to make for her first class assignment and forgetting about eating all together—plopping down next to her onto her back with a loud sigh.

 

Her long hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing black yoga pants with a muscle tank that reads the words ‘BUT DID YOU DIE‘. She kicks off her black flip flops, letting out another tired sigh.

 

“Haven’t seen you in class for a while,” Clarke notes, when Octavia doesn’t speak. She’d noticed, because making friends was turning out to be even harder than she’d expected. Especially when you can’t tell people anything but lies. “And our TA was very much present. I noticed.”

 

“You noticed, huh?” Octavia takes her arm off her face and takes in Clarke, eyes focusing in on the graphite staining her fingers before slowly making their way up her body. It makes Clarke feel a little uneasy, to be examined and judged this obviously but the other girl doesn’t really seem to care.

 

“Hard day at the office?” Clarke offers, voice a little tight and the brunette sits up, shrugging. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. My relationship with Lincoln might’ve started because I needed better grades.”

 

“And?” Clarke presses after a moment, because she doesn’t really know where she’s going with this. She’s watched One Tree Hill about six times in its entirety, but they skipped college in favor of a flashforward and she feels like she’s missed some vital information on American Culture there.

 

“And, well. _Fuck_. I can’t ask him for actual help now, because I just end up getting distracted by how hot he is.”

 

Clarke nods, empathetic. She’d get distracted, too, but it’s probably no use sharing that information with Octavia. She knows. Instead, she decides on, “What did you get for your first paper?”

 

She stiffens. Then, she clears her throat, piping up, “We had a paper due?”

 

Clarke offers her an apologetic smile, offering her an half-assed shrug. “It’s just ten percent of the grade.”

 

She groans, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she runs a hand over her hair. It makes the ponytail look even messier but for some annoying reason it works for her. “I’m going to get murdered.”

 

“By Wallace?” Clarke raises a skeptical eyebrow, because she’d figured he was the type of professor who found pleasure in his students failing and not living up to him.

 

“No, fuck, _no_.” She grits her teeth together, plucks some grass out of the ground before discarding it by her feet. “I would kick his geriatric ass in three seconds. It’s just—my brother busted his ass to get me into this school and he basically works 24/7 to keep me here and I can’t even pass a stupid art class.” Her eyes land on Clarke’s sketch and she bites the inside of her lip. “No offense.”

 

“I could help you,” Clarke offers, genuine, because helping people is still in her blood. “I’m majoring in art, so this is really not anything new for me.”

 

“Then why are you taking this class?” Ever so blunt. She looks the tiniest bit suspicious, like she’s used to seeing the worst in people and distrust comes naturally to her.

 

“Because…” Clarke pauses, biting down on her lip. Mr. Miller told her it was best to stick to the truest version of her lies, which didn’t make sense at the time but all of a sudden now it does. “Because I wanted the American college experience.”

 

She snorts, tightening her ponytail a little. “How’s that working out for you?”

 

“Uhm, my guide Anya, she’s… uhm. Different? I guess. She just pointed at the main building and then basically told me to get lost.” Clarke licks her lips, considering other ways she possibly could have made more friends. “I don’t have a roommate, so there goes that easy in. Basically, I don’t know anyone here, and not knowing anyone means I just go to my classes and then I draw, or watch Netflix.”

 

Not quite what she’d expected, but still a nice change from her normal responsibilities. Plus, it keeps Mr. Sinclair from upping his blood pressure medicine.

 

“Fuck, that sounds boring,” she admits without skipping a beat and Clarke cocks an eyebrow. She would be offended, if she didn’t know it to be true.

 

“Okay, how about this,” she starts, brushing some dead grass off her shoulder, “You teach me your artisan ways, and I, a known Good Person, will introduce you to my idiot friends so you can hit up a party now and then. Mhm?”

 

“I was going to help you anyway, but you make your idiot friends sound so appealing I can’t possibly refuse.”

 

Octavia nods, smiling brightly as she stretches a little. “Okay, this friday, 9PM, Sigma Phi Delta. _Epic_ party.”

 

“Monday, 10AM, library,” Clarke retorts, as the bell rings and she starts collecting her books and pencils, thrusting them into her Polis University tote bag carelessly.

 

She groans, getting up onto her feet and wiping off her butt, before she helps up Clarke. “Fine.” Then as they start walking into the direction of the school building, she observes, “You have the weirdest accent, you know that? It’s like American, but then… sometimes it sounds Australian?”

 

“Uhm, yeah,” and Clarke’s face is about the equivalent of the Kill Bill Sirens going off. Literal Kill Bill Sirens, going off in her head. “I’m _totally_ from Alaska but my grandma, she’s Australian and she practically raised me, so—yeah.”

 

In the five seconds it takes Octavia to reply (probably because she’s fiddling with her phone and not actually trying to punch holes in her secret personality), Clarke is _actually_ sweating. “Cool.”

 

Clarke feels bad for lying to practically her only friend, but she doesn’t even really seem to care so there’s really no harm done. Right? Right.

 

.

 

Everything in Clarke screams at her to show up at the party at 8:45, but that’s why she knows it’s everything she shouldn’t do. Royal protocols do not apply to American colleges. She proves her own point when she shows up at 9:30 and there’s only five people there, one of which thankfully includes Octavia.

 

She immediately thrusts a red cup into her hands, pulling her over to her side. “Clarke, this is Jasper and Monty. Nerds, this is Clarke. My art friend I told you about.”

  
Clarke beams, automatic, shaking their hands. “Nice to meet you.” One of them is wearing safety goggles around his neck like the ones they use in science glasses, and the other one has the kind of glorious thick, dark, boy band hair that would make many males jealous. They look nice.

 

Jasper, she thinks, throws his arm around her, ignoring her hand. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Welcome to the greatest party you’ll ever attend, until we throw the next one that is. If you’re interested I could show you around?”

 

Before Clarke can open her mouth to respond, Monty—the one with the hair and the maybe the friendliest face she’s ever seen—slaps Jasper’s arm away, rolling his eyes. “Let the girl acclimate first, yeah? She looks like this is the first time she’s entered a boys’ dorm, maybe save the flirting until _after_ she’s had a drink?”

 

“Or, maybe, just forget about it all together,” Octavia buts in, crossing her arms over her chest, “it’s not your strongest suit.”

 

He mocks her, repeating her words in a childish voice to which a poke war starts and Clarke laughs. “I prefer girls, anyway.”

 

Jasper stops poking Octavia in the ribs long enough to note, “You’re a lesbian?” For a second, it feels uneasy, the tension around them, because it sounds a little judgemental and Clarke’s not used to just spitting it out like that, not used to people actually reacting to it, in her face. Then, a wide mischievous smirk appears on his face, “Because I know _the_ perfect girl for you, if you’re interested.”

 

“Bi,” Clarke shrugs, and it feels weird, to actually say it out loud like that. She’s kept it inside for so long even though she’s known, maybe, since she first found out about Beyoncé. But, also _good_. She’s bi. Who the fuck cares?

 

“Nice. Pan,” Monty nods, high-fiving her. And that’s that. Which feels weird but totally good.

 

She meets Raven next, an engineering mechanics major, who beats her at Mario Kart shamelessly, and she promises to watch the newest season of Black Mirror with as soon as she learns Clarke has an HD tv in her dorm.

 

She does multiple shots—that Monty concocted with God knows (motor oil and pure alcohol probably)—with Octavia, who, for such a tiny girl, can certainly hold her liquor. Clarke is only used to champagne and the sporadic glass of wine during dinner, so that might not really measure up anyway, in American College Student terms.

 

She has a really nice conversation with a guy named Wells in the bathroom—he’s pretty drunk, crying about his phone dying and she gives him hers so he can continue watching videos of newborn kittens.

 

A girl, Maya, offers her a ‘safer’ drink after she watches Clarke choke on the umpteenth strange cocktail Monty made for her, and after bonding over William Blake and which layer of hell they’d like to spend eternity in, they make plans to drink coffee together.

 

Jasper and Monty invite her to their fraternity’s monthly movie night at their dorm complex, and force her to come according to the theme’s dress code, which, apparently, is vampires this month. Even though most of the students attending Polis already look like they stepped right out of the Blade Runner franchise and into real life. She tells them as much, and Jasper laughs and promises her they’ll be _great_ _buddies_.

 

Suddenly, she has friends. Or is in the process of having them. All and all, no matter what happens, it was a good deal. She had fun, truly, unworried fun, for maybe the first time in her life.

 

Clarke drinks so many different mixed, strong, fruity, disgusting drinks on that night, that when she has her library date with Octavia, she’s _still_ hungover. It’s why she looks like literal shit, probably the very reason she forgot to brush her hair this morning and it’s also why it takes her about a good ten seconds to realize Octavia stopped walking alongside her at one point, from somewhere in between the entry door of the library to the study area in the back.

 

She turns back around, to find the security guard’s hand wrapped around her friend’s upper arm, stupid smirk on his face as he demands to see ‘ _what’s in her bag_ ’. She quickly hurries back over there because Clarke is not entirely sure that isn’t dirty talk for wanting to see her private parts.

 

Octavia just rolls her eyes though, shrugging his hand off. “This is my dick brother, Bellamy. The illusion of power has turned him into an even bigger dipshit than he usually is.”

 

“Clarke,” she offers, sticking out her hand and he just acknowledges it with a small nod and raise of eyebrows, before turning back to his sister.

 

“Guess what I stepped on this morning, _again_ , when I went to take a shower?”

 

He’s ridiculously attractive, she’ll give him that. He has curly hair, and tan brown freckled skin that looks super smooth, and, like a really nice, bright smile and honestly his arms in that uniform? 10/10. But, he’s ridiculously attractive and obviously _knows it_. Which is, like super annoying.

 

Octavia clenches her jaw, crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, I was in a hurry this morning and I’m sticking to my original point that my underwear is so brightly colored that even you—with your bad, old man sight—should be able to see them.”

 

“O, I swear to God that if you—”

 

At this point, Clarke pretty much zones out, taking a micro-nap probably. She’s never been this tired before. In her life. She’s never drinking again.

 

After a few minutes, or two hours—Clarke can’t be sure—Octavia elbows her. She’s smiling at her brother, says something about the amount of daylight in Alaska (?) to him that Clarke doesn’t quite register, which leads her to believe their argument about dirty laundry probably ended in good faith.

 

“Do you mind if I get us some coffee? It’s 10 a.m. and I’m only human,” Octavia turns back to Clarke, and she nods, sending her a quick smile as she rubs at her eyes. “I’ll just find us some seats.”

 

Just as she’s about to walk away, she feels a hand on her arm. “Uhm, Clarke.” It’s Bellamy. He’s frowning. Her name sounds foreign in his mouth.

 

She looks down at his hand, to which he immediately lets go. Her skin immediately feels much colder than before. She wraps her arms around herself. “Yeah?”

 

“I don’t know how to say this, but,” he clears his throat, and his tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip, almost nervously. His eyes skim around the room before landing back on hers. “I’m pretty sure you’re being followed, you know that?”

 

“W-what,” she stammers, heat flushing to her cheeks. Her heart’s beating about a mile a minute. He sends her a funny look, then the frown returns.

 

“Do you want me to call anyone for you? Technically this falls under campus jurisdiction but we can’t formally charge anyone with anything, so you might be better off—”

 

He’s talking so much and she’s so shocked that it takes her a minute to catch up. It takes a second for media training muscle memory to take over and for her face to neutralize. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s probably nothing.”

 

He looks surprised, and a little uneasy, too, rubbing his shoulder awkwardly. Like he’s about to offer her something that he doesn’t really want to do. “Really? I could talk to them, if you’d like.”

 

She smiles, big and fake and _with teeth_ , and prays to god that her political charm is enough to pull her through this lie. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Who would want to follow _me_? But—thank you, for warning me.”

 

He nods, final, lips pressed together in a tight line. She can feel he doesn’t quite buy it, but she hopes he’ll just forget about it if she disappears from his life.

 

She throws a thumb over her shoulder, pressing her lips together in a tight smile before finding herself and Octavia a seat. She makes eye-contact with Mr. Miller, but out of fear of Bellamy watching her, quickly looks away.

 

She’s going to have to have a good talk with the both of them, she realizes as she takes out her supplies and sets up her laptop. She’d thought they’d been so subtle—no one’s said anything before, they keep their respectable distance, _she_ even forgets they’re there half of the time. To be fair, they hadn’t accompanied her to the party because she snuck out, planning to do shit she didn’t want to get back to her parents, knowing they’d look weird attending a party anyway. But older people go to college and take classes here, so they don’t completely stick out like sore thumbs. No one really noticed, anyway.

 

Except, he had. She looks over her shoulder at Bellamy, but he was busy schooling some kid about using his skateboard inside of the building. She nervously chews on the back of her pencil, trying to figure out the odds of him actually pursuing this further.

 

He doesn’t know her, so he should feel no obligation to her whatsoever. Plus, it’s not like he has any proof that people are actually following her. Clarke guesses that he will let it go eventually, especially if she just makes sure not to see him that often. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

 

.

 

If there’s one thing she’s learned over the years from her parents, it’s that you should never rely on plan A to actually work.

 

Turns out, Bellamy is a little harder to avoid than she’d initially assumed.

 

“Hey princess!”

 

Clarke’s heart rate is about 180 as she freezes in the middle of the quad, entire body tense with fear. Is she really about to be exposed, in public, in front of about a hundred other people who right now don’t even really seem to notice that Clarke is ten seconds away from stress-crying?

 

When she turns around to face the person who called her out, fingers unconsciously reaching up to fold around the panic button hanging from her neck, but it’s not at all who she expected. Since she expected an entire crew of local news reporters, it wasn’t hard for her to be wrong.

 

“What, you don’t like the nickname?” Bellamy snorts, and it feels weird, like she’s watching the entire thing happen, but she’s not actually there. He’s in his uniform, lunchbag folded underneath his arm. He must be on a break, she figures, because she refuses to believe he actively was seeking her out.

 

“I have a name. It’s Clarke,” she just says instead of letting him get under her skin, eyebrows raised as she lowers her hand to tuck her fingers behind the strap of her bag instead.

 

“Nice necklace,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly, and Clarke still feels like he’s in on a joke she is no part of, like when she was little and kids would make fun of her to her face, because little kids don’t care about royal protocol, but it’d be in a nice way, so Clarke couldn’t actually call them out on it.  

 

She doesn’t respond right away, because it feels like he’s getting somewhere with this and she’d like to know where exactly. Just shrugs, like she’s willing him to continue.

 

“I like, uh, what are they called?” His brown eyes scrunch up, like he’s thinking it over _really_ hard, Clarke’s fist tightening at her side as she worries about his last five brain cells dying off. “Griffins,” he declares, faux-innocently, eyes lingering on the small silver circle around her neck, [an emblem with a griffin](https://www.etsy.com/nl/listing/105565976/griffin-halsketting-sterling-silver), because that’s… that’s how the panic buttons in her country look. Because the royal family name is… Griffin. Fuck.

 

She opens her mouth to say thank you so she can exert herself the fuck out of this conversation, but he cuts her off, head tilted a little, dark eyes set on hers. “What’s your last name again?”

 

Clarke’s eyes narrow into a small squint, grip on her bag tightening, and it suddenly starts to make sense. She doesn’t know how, but he knows. He must _know_. Over her dead body that Clarke is going to either admit or be caught in a lie, he doesn’t know her, but he’ll find that out about her. She doesn’t give up easily. “It’s Lockhart.”

 

It’s her mother’s maiden name. And it suddenly feels stupid, _she_ feels stupid. Everything is too obvious—the name that could easily be traced back to her family, the emblem, using her own fucking first name and looking exactly like she would at home—of course someone was going to find out, she’s _so_ stupid. She should’ve just gone with that stupid red wig Sinclair proposed, at least then it would be like she at least tried not to look like herself.

 

She is _not_ a quitter though. And as long as he doesn’t like threaten to sell her out unless she wires a million to his account or forces her to fake-date him to get famous or whatever, she’s not going to say anything. Let alone beg for him to not expose her.

 

She lifts her chin, not looking away from him, to like, assert dominance as she snaps, “Was there a point to this conversation, or did you just stop me to compliment my jewelry?”

 

He holds up his hands in defense, brown lunch bag scrunching under the weight of his elbow, as he shakes his head lightly, brows furrowed together almost angrily. “Hey. Just trying to get to know the girl who my sister seems to spend all her time with lately.”

 

It doesn’t feel like he’s making it up, because he does seem to really care about Octavia, but it also doesn’t feel like the whole truth either. For her own peace of mind, she’ll just pretend that is actually his angle and she hasn’t just been completely made by a random asshole on the street. All in all, Clarke wants to get away from him.

 

“I have to get to class,” she announces, and it’s not a lie, but she knows it also sounds like a cop-out. She clears her throat, using a tone that definitely sounds hopeful she doesn’t, “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

 

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t let me keep you, princess.”

 

She represses a glare, just smiles at him, tightly, nostrils flared lightly, before forcing herself to walk away, slow and casual. He’s definitely under her skin, but he doesn’t get to know that, does he?

 

.

 

That Friday, Octavia comes over to her dorm, and brings Raven. The latter one, for some reason carries a screwdriver in her purse and gets to work on updating her television, whatever that may mean, while Octavia gets out a make-up bag and forces her to sit still as she applies _way_ too much eyeliner.

 

“Ouch,” she winces, as some of the liquid gets on her actual eyeball, blinking profusely. “Is this really necessary?”

 

“Here, in the actual non-isolated parts of America where people actually live, and not the North-pole part we only kept because of its size, how much eye-liner you wear directly translates to your level of gayness. So if you want to score a chick tonight, you better let me wing the shit out of your eyes,” Octavia informs her, tip of her tongue sticking out as she stretches the skin of Clarke’s other eye out so she has better access.

 

“Aren’t you twenty though?” Clarke gives in, with a loud sigh, because there’s no use arguing with one Octavia Blake once she’s made up her mind. “Don’t you have to be twenty-one to get into a bar?”

 

“Relax,” Raven finally cuts in, stepping away from her TV as she turns it on, revealing a bunch of free channels with a smirk, hands on her hips proudly as she admires her own handywork. “Blake’s brother will let us in.”

 

Somehow that makes her everything but relaxed. She doesn’t have much time to think about it though, because Octavia throws a silver metallic top her way and tells her to get changed while she breaks open a bottle of lime-flavored vodka.

 

At first, Clarke thinks she might be able to get away with this. Bellamy is nowhere in sight, and the bouncer who isn’t him just lets them in because he recognizes Octavia. It’s actually pretty quiet in the bar, just a few dozen people, mostly sitting in booths, which gives her hope that maybe they were overstaffed and just send him home. She’s actually chatting up a girl whose eye-makeup would put Amy Winehouse to shame, when someone puts a shot down in front of her.

 

When she follows the tan, muscled arm who put it there to its body, and then its face, she almost lets out a frustrated sigh just at the sight of him. He cocks an eyebrow, “On the house, your highness.”

 

“Bellamy,” she states, sending the girl an apologetic glance as she turns in her barstool to face him. “Thanks.” She smirks, then downs the shot in one go, not breaking eye-contact once, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

With a defiant fluttering of her eyes, she turns back to the girl, leaning in closer as she reposes her question of what the girl’s job entails, leaning her face on her hand, purposely turning her body as far away from Bellamy’s as she can. It’s petty, but she doesn’t care. It also gives the girl a great view of her cleavage, because this is Octavia’s top and her boobs are practically spilling out because of it, so that’s an added plus.

 

She figures that’s that. He made his dig of the night and he’ll get back to his job and leave her to get laid, like she deserves. Yet...

 

Yet, it doesn’t seem like he wants to leave it alone. When she’s in the middle of telling the girl what college she usually attends, he butts in. “So, you grew up in Fairbanks, right?”

 

Clarke turns toward him, eyes wide and one brow cocked as she shakes her head lightly, as if to indicate ‘yeah, so?’. His smile widens at that, just a little amused as he continues, “I love history, so I’ve been dying to visit Fort Wainwright. You ever been there?”

 

“No, it’s not open to the public,” she responds with a roll of her eyes, without skipping a beat. However good his Google search was, hers was better. She came prepared. She turns back to the girl, opening her mouth to continue their conversation when he cuts in again.

 

“But if I were to go there, you know, just to admire it from the outside, should I take the metro?” He starts drying off glasses his co-worker puts in front of him, only shaking his head at Bellamy’s antics, like the other bartender is used to it. Like this is some fucked up way of flirting that Clarke has yet to understand.

 

“We don’t have a metro-line. You could take the train,” she nudges her head over to the girl, hoping he’ll take a hint. “Do you mind?”

 

He shakes his head like he doesn’t mind, but then continues talking anyway, causing Clarke to dig her nails into her palms. “While I’m there, do you think I could visit one of those dog sledding championships? They seem like fun.”

 

“If you visit in March, you can,” she hisses, teeth gritted together. Facing the brunette, “So you were saying—”

 

“What about ice-skating? It’s my favorite sport at the winter Olympics,” he continues, smug. What exactly is his angle here? He’s not going to catch her in a lie. Even if she doesn’t know the answer, she has years of Media Training that have given her a million ways of getting out of shit like this without even blinking twice.

 

“I don’t know,” she seethes, nostrils flaring, as she sends him a pointed look, “I’m not really into ice-sports.” It takes every inch of self-control she has not to call him names right now. But that would mean he’s getting under her skin, and why would he be getting under her skin if they were only discussing her everyday life?

 

“Do they have any other sports that don’t include ice? I mean, isn’t the entire state notorious for having long harsh winters and practically no summers?” He lets out a chuckle, like he’s actually amused with himself. Fuck him, and fuck his pretty face.

 

“Look, if you want to hash it out with him, I can leave,” her sort-of-date intervenes, a little annoyed as she opens her purse to take her lip balm out, applying it to her lips with a certain kind of roughness.

 

“No, no, don’t pay any attention to him, please,” Clarke puts her hand on her knee, squeezing softly.

 

She eyes her consideringly, then sighs, motioning her hand for Clarke to continue talking. “Fine. But only because you’re hot.”

 

Clarke beams, jokingly launching into an anecdotal story about how she learned the importance of eyeliner today when Bellamy suddenly brings up the upcoming mayoral elections in Fairbank. The girl just rolls her eyes and slides of the barstool, ignoring Clarke’s pleas for her to stay.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Clarke hisses, slamming her palms flat on the top of the bar. It seems to catch a few people’s attention, but she doesn’t care. She’s pissed, and horny. And it’s been a fucking while.

 

“I’m not doing anything, princess,” Bellamy grins, “Just showing a friendly interest.”

 

“I liked her,” Clarke spits, bobbing her head like a two-year-old tantrum throwing child as she groans. “And I really wanted to get laid tonight.”

 

“Look, not that it’s any of my business,” he lowers his voice a little, deep and dark, putting the glass he was drying off on the bar, throwing the drying towel over his shoulder as he leans closer, hands on his side of the bar. “But, Echo comes in here a lot, nine out of ten times it’s with her girlfriend, and I know for a fact she can throw a better punch than you can.”

 

She’s taken back by the kindness of it all, just for a second. Then she remembers he’s an asshole. She huffs, indignant, ready to go off on him when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, quickly adding, “That wasn’t a dig. Her girlfriend Anya has a black belt in jiu-jitsu.”

 

Okay, she actually knows Anya, and she _would_ lose a fight to her before one of her guards could step in.

“So you’re looking out for me, huh?” Clarke spits, skeptical and angry. She doesn’t need anyone to look out for her, she already has enough people doing that. Mr. Miller hovering near the bathrooms and Mr. Sinclair positioned lonely in a booth on her left is enough evidence of that. “How chivalrous.”

 

“That’s me. Knight in shining armor.” He takes away her glass and goddamnit he’s just wearing a black v-neck with the Delinquent's logo on it and it still makes her press her thighs together. Angry and horny. Not a good combination when the source of both of them is the same person. “I wonder what monarchies still have those.” Then, like he’s rehearsed it before, “Do you happen to have any clue?”

 

She leans forward, voice low and dark. His eyes land on her chest and linger just a little too long. She almost reaches out to grab him by the shirt, but figures that might be a little too hardcore. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, nor do I care. Just know this—I _will_ win.”

 

He blinks at her, unimpressed. He huffs, smirking a little, then narrows his eyes at her. “Brave princess, huh?”

 

“You don’t know me,” she bites back, throat tight with anger, chest tight fron injustice. God, she wants to punch him in the face so bad. She hates her vagina for trying to convince her of anything different.

 

The bar has gotten much busier since she first sat down and he is flagged away to help actually serve drinks instead of harassing her, before he can respond, Octavia pulling her onto the small dancefloor soon enough.

 

He doesn’t talk to her for the rest of the night and at one point Raven must see her eyeing him and mistake the hatred for interest, Octavia texting her TA-boyfriend in the booth next to them.

 

The brunette smirks, nudging her shoulder into hers. “You should go for it. He’s really good in bed.”

 

“W-what?” Clarke stammers, both at the assumption she would ever, with him, and at the fact Raven already did. Not out of jealousy, but out of like, why? He’s a dick. To hide the flush on her neck, she presses her glass to her mouth and downs the remainder of it in one gulp.

 

Raven rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still on her lips. She tightens her ponytail, and Clarke gets a whiff off cinnamon, because Raven always seems to smell like it. “Octavia won’t mind, if that’s what you’re scared about.”

 

“I’m not interested,” she just declares, stern, yelling inwardly at herself for glancing over at him, for just a second. She wants to die. Raven also seems to notice and just laughs.

 

She cocks a knowing eyebrow. “Whatever you say, _princess._ ”

 

Okay, now Clarke really wants to die.

 

.

 

“You want to come over to my house and get high?”

 

Clarke almost chokes on her own spit as she checks around the lecture hall to see if anyone heard her, eyes wide in terror.

 

“Relax, I thought weed was legal in Alaska?” Octavia is already putting her notebook into her bag quietly, eyebrows raised.

 

“Yeah,” she stammers, voice low as to not trigger a rant about politeness and respect from Wallace, again. “But it’s not here, and I’m not looking to get arrested.” Could you imagine the headlines? Princess Busted for Possession. Her mom would never let her live that down.

 

“That’s why I asked you to come over to my house and why I didn’t bring it here,” Octavia smirks, batting her eyelashes innocently. “If you don’t want to, however, and would rather listen to Wallace orally satisfy himself for another hour—”

 

Shoving her stuff off her desk and into her arms, Clarke mutters, “Let’s go.”

 

Protocol is for them to actually go into the same room with her, but she’s managed to convince her personal bodyguards over an extensive thread of text-messages to just stay outside in the car because she has her panic button on her and she could take Octavia if she tried anything (she couldn’t, but that’s beside the point).

 

Octavia’s house is small, but personal and homey, like actual people live there. There’s pictures of her and Bellamy, mostly of them growing up, some of them with a woman that must be their mother. There’s a huge picture of young, fresh-faced Octavia in a graduation cap above the fireplace, and she must catch her looking, because she rolls her eyes, kicking off her shoes before plopping down on the couch, slinging her backpack onto the floor.

  
“Bell’s like obsessed with me, I know.” She turns on the tv with the remote, settling on a music channel as she puts her feet on top of the coffee table. “Can’t blame him, I _am_ awesome.”

 

Clarke observes the rest of the room; running her fingers over the spines of the old, well-read books in their bookcase, most of them about mythology or old children books; smiling absentmindedly at the macaroni art of a dog that has Octavia’s name under it; takes in the weights in the corner of the room, the christmas cards still stuck to their message board even though it’s may, the vague smell of food and laundry detergent; one of Bellamy’s uniform shirts hanging over a kitchen chair; finally settles on sitting down next to Octavia, studying the picture on the side table next to her.

 

She picks it up, it’s Bellamy with one arm around his sister. She’s wearing a Polis University sweater and they’re both smiling insanely big. She still had bangs then, and Bellamy’s hair was a little shorter. They look so happy.

 

All the pictures Clarke has of her family are public and staged, the emotions on them always feigned. Even if Clarke could point out which fight she just had with her mother or what rumour was printed in the newspaper that day just from looking at each portrait.

 

Octavia finally nudges her, handing her the joint. Clarke takes a hit, then hands it back to her. It’s actually pretty bad weed, but she won’t tell Octavia that. She has a pretty high tolerance since weed has been legal in Arkadia since before her birth (because why the fuck wouldn’t it be?) and it takes really good stuff for her to actually get high nowadays. She was very stressed in high school, lets keep it to that.

 

“We should watch Riverdale. It’s actually pretty funny when you’re high,” she suggests at one point, and Clarke just nods. She has never heard of the show before, nor does she care to actually watch it, but she likes hanging with Octavia, hearing her opinion on things. She’s never actually met anyone who just says what they think, all the time.

 

“It’s just you and Bellamy that live here?” The blonde wonders, not actually asking what she wants to know, but knowing Octavia will get it anyway, what she’s actually asking. It’s the polite, PC way of asking about their personal lives.

 

“Yeah,” she blows out a big cloud of smoke skillfully, handing it back over to Clarke. “Mom died just after Bell graduated.”

 

She nods, not wanting to intrude or bring up shit that’s personal and hurts, taking a long drag as she considers it. Growing up in a house like this, not a palace, not always surrounded by at least one person, not—fake and full of expectations and dread, always the dread.

 

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was pretty much me and him all the time anyway. I’m not glad she commited suicide or anything, but, I don’t know. We’re better off, you know?” She coughs a little, resting her head on the back of the couch, shrugging lightly. “When she wasn’t drunk or in bed, she was off with some guy she just met and it—it was exhausting.”

 

Clarke scrunches up her nose, and it’s hard. To imagine what they went through, to still sit here and complain about her sheltered and safe life when—when this was reality. “And Bellamy, he just—he adopted you?”

 

Octavia laughs, choking mid-inhale as she slaps Clarke’s thigh. “Wow. _No_. He’s my legal guardian, or he was. Now he’s just a pain in my ass.”

 

“You called for me?” It’s Bellamy’s voice, teasing, and Clarke immediately sits up right, pressing a hand to her heart. “Jesus Christ, how are you everywhere?”

 

“To be fair, this is my house,” he snorts, putting his bag on the kitchen table, and because he always has to ruin it, bows down, and curtsies dramatically. “Your royal highness.”

 

Clarke just glares at him, already knowing his sister won’t think much of it, but it still gets her blood boiling in the most infuriating way. Just the thought—just the thought of having to leave is giving her full on anxiety.

 

“Bell,” Octavia is still coughing, leaning forward to put the joint out in an ‘Delinquents’ ashtray. “Why are you home?”

 

“I’m sorry my being home inconvenienced you getting stoned during school hours,” he smacks the back of her head playfully, falling down on the couch in between them with a deep sigh. “Shumway is sick so they need me to cover the night shift. I was working out when my ‘ _Octavia is up to something_ ’ senses started tingling.”

 

“Class got cancelled,” she lies skillfully, taking her water bottle (it says BEAST MODE in bright pink letters) out of her bag and taking a big gulp. She nods her head to the side, not actually making eye-contact because she probably figures he’d not take up the offer anyway, “Ask Clarke.”

 

“Since you’re the only one of her friends that actually goes to class and you seem truthful enough,” he states, pausing as he looks at her, like he’s waiting for her to come clean and all of a sudden confess she’s a famous princess. Then, he adds, “Is it true?”

 

Clarke is conflicted. Because one, she’s loyal to her friends, but two, he’s challenging her to lie here and even if she’s harboring the biggest lie since maybe that time her and Miller went on a date because he wasn’t ready to deal with his sexuality, that doesn’t make her a liar on principle. It’s a white lie, a huge one, but one that protects her and makes sure she doesn’t get abducted while trying to live her life.

 

But it kind of feels like, if she lies now, right here, in front of his face, it’s crossing a line, making her the person he thinks she is. Like she’s losing an argument.

 

“No,” Clarke doesn’t look away from him, sees Octavia throw her head back and groan vaguely in her peripheral vision, instead, even leans a little closer. He smells like boy sweat and deodorant. “But if it makes you feel any better, there’s nothing that could come out of professor Wallace’s mouth that would make any human being even a fraction more educated.”

 

He stares into her eyes a little longer, like he’s trying to figure her out. Clarke chest feels tight all of a sudden, mouth dry. Then he nods, soft, then with more feeling. “I’ll let it slide, just this once.”

 

He’s smirking, so Clarke figures he’s not too serious about the whole skipping school thing. She’s still busy admiring how his curls fall into his eyes when Octavia reaches out and twists his nipple through his baggy muscle T, he yelps and retaliates by slapping her in the stomach with a flat hand. (It doesn’t seem like it does much to hurt her, since her abs are rockhard and everything.)

 

“You’re not my dad,” Octavia says, flat, like this is an argument they have all the time as the next episode of whatever show they were watching starts to play. Faux-innocently, “But since Clarke likes to rat out her friends so daddy likes her more than the others, maybe you can be hers.”

 

“I literally just threw up a little in my mouth,” Clarke says, shaking her head as Octavia sticks her tongue out at her, taking a plastic container full of her famous vegan brownies out of her bag.

 

“Hey, don’t kinkshame,” Bellamy nudges her with his elbow and she laughs, rubbing her arm, hyper aware of the fact their arms are touching and she’s super close to him. He pulls the container from his sister’s hand, stuffing one in his mouth as he presses the rest again his chest protectively.

 

“Those are mine, dick,” Octavia reaches out but he holds them up above her head. Her length compared to Bellamy’s is obviously a sore spot, because her brows are furrowed close together, getting up on her knees to have better access.

 

“No way,” he says, turning his entire body away from hers as he holds out the container to Clarke, eyes shining with amusement while the blonde decides she’s not going to get in the middle of this. “Clarke can have one because she told the truth.”

 

“I slaved over those in the kitchen,” Octavia protests, loud, pushing her brother’s shoulder as Clarke stuffs one in her mouth, informing her, “Wow, they’re _so_ good.”

 

Bellamy is literally gniffling at this point, his sister no match for the wall that is his back.

 

“Fine, Bell,” she mutters, sinking back down on her ass as she crosses her arms over her chest, petulantly. “I promise not to skip any more classes this semester unless Wallace starts rating his own paintings on a scale from 9 to 11 again. Then I’m out.”

 

“What do you think?” Bellamy asks her, pretending not to hear her, too sincere for it to be real, as he nudges his head back a little, “You think she means it?”

 

He’s so close, and she still hates him, but fuck him for being so attractive. She grins, “Nah. Probably not.” He sends a smug to his sister over his shoulder, who looks incredibly betrayed. She catches him by surprise and takes the container from him. “You snooze you lose, though.”

 

“God, I’m so glad I decided to keep you,” Octavia practically moans, beaming excitedly.

 

“Well played,” he snorts, then turns back to his original position, slapping his hand on his thighs. “I’m going to go take a nap before my shift, okay?”

 

Octavia just hums an affirmative in response as he ruffled her hair, getting up. She kicks him without even hesitating and Clarke is still watching him retreat up the stairs when she feels a pinch on her arm.

 

She yelps, rubbing the sore spot as she glares over at Octavia, shifting the brownies away from her to make a point. “What was that for?”

 

“You didn’t tell me you _like_ him,” she responds, arms crossed over her chest. Clarke can’t tell if she’s angry, or happy. Either way, it doesn’t matter because it’s not true.

 

“Because I don’t?” Her brows furrow together in confusion and the brunette just rolls her eyes, pulling her legs up on the couch and folding them beneath her.

 

“All of my friends thirst after my brother at one point or another. Comes with the genes.”

 

Clarke scoffs, actually getting offended now. She’s entitled to her own feelings, and she doesn’t have them! Not for him, anyway. “I _don’t_ like him.”

 

“Sure,” Octavia agrees with a small smile, but she still sounds like she doesn’t believe her, and Clarke probably can’t say anything that’ll make her change her mind. So she just groans, throwing her head back. “I regret getting those brownies back to you.”

 

“You want to go to his game on Saturday? We can heckle him together,” Octavia offers, lifting a shoulder noncommittally, after a moment of staring at the television, showing one of the characters cut off a piece of flesh from another’s arm and Clarke wonders how something like this was targeted at teens. America. “The sex-depraved housewifes, God. They’re so funny.”

 

“A game?” Clarke raises her eyebrows, shifting her head on the couch to get a better view of the youngest Blake.

 

“Bell coaches the youth soccer team, little five year olds,” she smirks, obviously thinking it’ll make Clarke’s lady hormones go off the charts, but instead she feels uneasy all of a sudden. She has had a job her entire life, and it has its faults, it’s not actual _work_. Not like Octavia and Bellamy know it to be.

 

She settles on something neutral. “What’s in it for me?”

 

“Well, you wanted the whole American College experience, right?” She shrugs indifferently. “Sports are a big deal here. Plus, I won’t have to suffer all by myself.”

 

“Fine,” she mutters, because what’s the harm? Maybe if she just glares at Bellamy the whole time, Octavia will drop the idea she has some sort of crush on him. The brunette reaches out to fistbump her but misses by at least a feet, laughing loudly.

 

It suddenly fades, as she turns to Clarke with wide eyes, the weed definitely getting to her now. “Wait, wow. What if instead of _kicking_ the ball, they bounce it up and down with their hand and _throw_ it at the goal?”

 

“You mean basketball?”

 

.

 

Octavia picks her up with her bright yellow bicycle at 09:30, Monty in tow on his mountain bike. He doesn’t actually care about soccer, but apparently horny bored housewives are good for business. Whatever business he may be in.

 

They’re a little early, because Octavia always helps braid the girls’ and some of the boys’ hair before the game starts while Monty finds them seats. Clarke helps, but she isn’t nearly as skilled because she’s used to other people doing her hair for her and her knowledge of braids is limited to the regular three-stranded ones. The youngest Blake makes entire fishtail or dutch plait creations in the blink of an eye, though, which is super cool. Until she is informed her brother taught her, and then it’s just relatively neat.

 

They get corn dogs from a stand, even though it’s 10:00 and Clarke’s stomach churns at the smell. Monty’s got them seats in the back, because he ‘needed to be discreet with his clientele’, and Clarke decides not to ask. At least they’re covered by some of the shade, the morning sun already high and hot in the sky.

 

It’s busy enough that her guards blend in nicely with the crowd, looking like regular dads watching their kids play soccer. Finally a place they don’t stick out like a sore thumb.

 

She’s discussing his pharmaceutical sciences mayor with Monty, when a voice booms through the speakers, indicating the game is about to start. A group of kids emerges from their dressing rooms in their light-blue uniforms, with tightly braided hairdos and eye black on their cheeks, being announced as the Grounders while ‘ _We Are The Champions_ ’ plays from the speakers surrounding their miniature field. Bellamy helps one of them up when he trips, his other hand tightly clasped by a kid who looks like she might throw up any second.

 

 _Fuck_. So her lady hormones might be slightly of balance, anyway.

 

“They’re playing those little demon Grasshoppers today,” Octavia tells her, voice low as she leans closer while clapping for the Grounders’ entrance. Her eyes are narrowed dangerously.

 

(Clarke should’ve known, she’s wearing a Grounders jersey over her jean shorts, tied at the side because it’s too big. She’s hardcore. Even their male friend is sporting the Walmart version of their uniform, a sapphire colored t-shirt with LIL’ GROUNDERS written on the back in black marker. Clarke feels underdressed in her grey T tucked into her Levi’s jean skirt.)

 

“They’re just kids,” Monty reminds her through his teeth as he smiles tightly over at some fourty year old lady eyeing him a few rows over. Clarke just shakes her head, sitting down as the announcer tells them the game is about to start.

 

Bellamy picks up his clipboard and sticks it under his arm as he kneels down in front of a girl. He puts his hands on top of her shoulders assuringly, talking to her in a low voice.

 

“That’s Madi,” Octavia fills in, because apparently Clarke’s curiosity just radiates off her. “This is her first game.”

 

The girl, Madi, finally nods at him after a moment and they both turn towards the audience, Bellamy pointing towards who she guesses is her mother. The mother waves back excitedly in recognition and Madi’s nervousness visibly deflates. The mother is no longer looking at her child, but instead sucking in her bottom lip as she ogles Bellamy’s broad back. He does look good in his tight light-blue Grounders matching t-shirt, Clarke has to give him that. It’s a shame he’s covered up his curls with a cap.

 

The game starts, and free from a few cheers and some referee heckling courtesy of Octavia, nothing much happens and the score stays 0-0 during the first half.

 

She is, however, almost exposed during half-time.

 

A few moms are discussing the recent royal weddings, mentioning the one in Azgeda at one point. Roan’s sister Ontari recently got married and Clarke attended it with her parents. It wasn’t exactly fun, considering Ontari hated her guts ever since Clarke was voted Number One Hottest Princess to watch by her own Azgedian people over her, but seeing Roan and having an excuse to drink too much made it less terrible. It gave her comfort to see even someone like Ontari could find love.

  
Clarke tries not to listen, and instead focus on Octavia rambling on about tactic and field positions even though it’s been thirty minutes and two kids have tripped over their own feet and it’s not that serious. She tries, but accidentally catches the eye of one of the ladies, whose face lights up.

 

“Wow, excuse me—” she starts, but Clarke quickly looks away, hiding her face with her hair as she suddenly finds Monty’s face super interesting. He just smiles over at her, because he’s precious and would never consider the fact she’s trying to hide her secret identity.

 

Bellamy jogs up the steps to meet them, because Octavia has been trying to wave him over for the entire half-time break, just as the lady advances her way through all the angry looking parents, knocking away knees and pushing aside Octavia. “Hey, you. I thought I’d recognized you. You look just like that princess!”

 

Clarke stiffens, clearing her throat as her eyes dart nervously over at her friends. She lets out a strangled laugh, but manages to keep a neutral face. “Me? A princess? I don’t think so.”

 

“No, I swear you look like her. What’s her name again?” Her gaze lands back on her lady friends, like they’ll be any help from so far away. She purses her lips in thought, squinting her eyes. “Griffin?”

 

“Look, lady,” Clarke urges, quick and insistent as her nails press into her palms. Out of the corner of her eyes she can spot Mr. Sinclair get up from his seat as he exchanges a cautious look with Mr. Miller and shit. Shit. This cannot be the way it’s revealed she’s not actually Clarke Lockhart. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not her.”

 

“Miss Hardy, I assure you. Clarke is no princess,” Bellamy presses, humoured tone to his voice, but it sounds authoritative and final enough that she retracts.

 

The woman regards them warily, then her mouth turns into a thin line as she nods. “Well, sorry. I could’ve sworn it was you.” She breaks into a small, giddy smile. “Great game so far, Bellamy.”

 

He thanks her, tells her Ethan is doing great and then pointedly asks his sister what she so desperately wanted to tell him, effectively sending the woman away. She retreats to her own seat, barely glancing over at Clarke once shamefully before continuing her conversation with her friends.

 

Clarke lets out a long breath of relief, catching Bellamy’s eye as he pretends to listen to Octavia monologuing about how whoever said defense was the best offense should die a painful death. He raises his eyebrows slightly, but tentatively, she offers him a thankful smile. He just nods at her, cutting off his sister and telling her he should get back to the team before the game starts back up again.

 

“Well, that was weird,” Octavia says, once the crowd has settled down and they’re sitting down again. Dryly, she adds, “Maybe that lady overdosed on your stuff, Green.”

 

“Yeah, that, or Clarke has a doppleganger,” he muses and Clarke fakes a smile. She used to be better at lying, when she didn’t know these people so well. Now they’re her friends, and she feels much guiltier about it all.

 

The conversation eventually dwindles back towards smalltalk, and Clarke is grateful for it. That was too close, way too close. Her own generation might not be interested in monarchies and royal weddings, but middle-aged people apparently still cared and had time to memorize the members of royal families.

 

Apparently Octavia used to play soccer, and she was pretty good at it, too, but then she got into a fight with half her team because they were fighting over boys and she decided team sports weren’t for her. It wasn’t just about the game anymore. “It was the first time Bellamy was actually upset with my life decisions. It’s been downhill ever since.”

 

“Aww, did he cry?” Clarke asks half-heartedly.

 

“My brother cries at everything so I don’t think it counts,” Octavia deadpans, jumping up excitedly as one of the kids nears the Grasshoppers’ goal, passing the ball over to Madi. She kicks it, and it lands in the corner of the goal, the crowd erupting into cheers. Bellamy makes them line up for a high-five, lifting up Madi when it’s her turn (she looks so happy, eyes crinkled as she laughs with joy, Clarke wants to die) and after a moment of two the audience settles down as the game picks back up.

 

“He did definitely cry when I got my green karate belt, though. Skipped the white, yellow and orange one because I’m _that_ awesome.”

 

“And because you were fifteen and you were in a group with seven year olds,” Monty adds, dryly, him and Clarke exchanging an amused glance. Octavia just sticks out her tongue but the blonde can’t stop thinking about how much her brother loves her, and how bad his sensitivity is for her health.

 

Afterwards, Bellamy takes all the kids out to lunch to celebrate their win with pizza and Octavia insists they join. Monty declines because, and she quotes, he can’t walk around with this many cash on hand, and Clarke scrambles for an excuse but comes up empty. She loves pizza, and the children are cute.

 

Octavia has to pee as soon as they get there, and a little kid with purple glasses too big for her face, called _‘Reese Lemkin, miss_ ’ clamps Clarke’s hand between hers and refuses to let anyone less take her to the toilet, too so that’s how the two of them end up in the bathroom, leaning back against the sinks, waiting for the kid to probably finish a number two.

 

“So, you still want to tell me you don’t have the hots for my brother?” Octavia pesters, hoisting herself on top of the counter. Clarke rolls her eyes. Not this again.

 

“Octavia,” Clarke teases, deciding it’s better to stay in the shallow end instead of treading the water. “If you want me to be your sister-in-law, you could just ask.”

 

Her eyebrows disappear even further into her hairline. “So you admit it.”

 

“I admit _what_ ?” She asks, incredulous. She still doesn’t know what her angle is. Does she _want_ them to date? Or is she trying to figure out if she should murder the exchange student because she’s making possible heart-eyes at her brother?

 

Her expression stays stoney. “That you think he’s hot.”

 

“No!” She responds, appalled, just because Octavia is trying to trick her and she doesn’t like it.

 

“You think he’s ugly then?” She argues next, a stupid, smug smirk on her face. Fucking Blakes. Annoying as hell.

 

“No,” Clarke exclaims, aggravated at the impossibility of their conversation as she pinches the bridge of her nose. Bellamy is the one who stalks _her,_ and his sister thinks she’s the one with a Thing. “I have eyes. He’s definitely hot. Attractive. Pretty. I’m just not into him like you think I am.”

 

“I finished!” A shrill voice booms through the room all of a sudden and Clarke turns to the other woman with dread.

 

“I’m _not_ wiping that kid’s ass,” Octavia informs her, eyebrows raised and arms crossed over her chest. The blonde sighs, resigned as she retreats into the stall.

 

When they return, Bellamy informs them he’s already ordered a veggie pizza for his sister and a chicken pepperoni with extra cheese for Clarke. She smiles despite herself, because that’s exactly what she likes and it’s nice. That even unconsciously, he can’t stop caring about other people.

 

“You can sit with Reese and I’ll sit with these monkeys!” Octavia exclaims happily as she disappears a booth over, and Bellamy makes room for Reese to squeeze in beside the other kids before sitting back down himself. It’s not like she has a choice now. With horror, she realizes the only spot left in the booth is next to Bellamy. And it’s a tight fit.

 

At least it’s not as bad as having to wipe another human’s butt. She’s _never_ doing that again.

 

She compliments a shy Madi on her goal, who’s sitting across from her, and they contentedly discuss favorite color socks to wear (kids are amazing) until the food arrives. Time passes quickly, and she doesn’t have to think about Bellamy’s warm, firm arm pressed against hers and how good he smells, so it’s a win/win. Octavia keeps peeking over the edge of her booth at them, but all she sees is Clarke finding discreet ways to flip her the bird.

 

It’s all rainbows and sunshine, and she manages to forget about her guards eating their sandwiches a few tables over, and actually manages to have a civil conversation about how she used to watch soccer with her dad with Bellamy—which is _not_ a lie, it’s just in a different context than she places it in because she can’t in good conscience start a sentence with ‘well, in my _palace_ ’ —until shit hits the fan.

 

“Clakh thinks you’re pretty,” Reese mentions offhandedly as she picks the mushrooms off her slice, eye black smudged all over her chubby red cheeks, using her free hand to push her glasses further up her nose.

 

“Is that so?” He smirks, or he probably is, because Clarke refuses to meet his eye. She loves Reese and would probably die for her toilet-buddy, but God, does she hate kids.

 

“I only said that because your sister implied you were ugly,” she mumbles, probably more angrily than necessary as she tears off a piece of pizza and stuffs it in her mouth.

 

“I think _you’re_ super pritty Clarke!” Madi exclaims gingerly, breaking some of the weird tension she feels. The blonde smiles widely at the girl’s admission despite herself.

 

“Yeah,” Bellamy confirms, hand on top on her bare knee, “Doesn’t she look just like a Disney princess?”

 

All the kids at the table ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ as a discussion starts on which Disney princess she would be, and she glares at him, even if a minute later they’re already arguing about whether Lilo is also a princess or not.

 

He squeezes her knee and she resists the urge to press her thighs together. They’re at a table full of kids, for God’s sake! What is he doing? She asks him as much.

 

“Nothing,” he replies innocently, lifting a shoulder indifferently, his pinking inching up her thigh. She can’t bring herself to push him away. “I just happen to think you resemble Cinderella. If the shoe fits…”

 

“And who might you be? Gaston?” She bites back, even if her skin feels hot, mouth feels dry. At least the kids are too focused on their pizzas and discussing Stitch’s legal status since he was an experiment (the kids are too precious) to really pay any attention to them. “I take it back, your ego might be bigger than his.”

 

“Oh, wow, you’re breaking my heart, babe,” he grins, pressing his free hand against his heart as he feigns hurt and she finally builds up the courage to push his hand away, ignoring how her heart jumps in her chest when he calls her babe. That pompous dick. At least it’s a step-up from _princess_. Two can play this game.

 

The boat neck of her T shows off her collarbone, and she takes advantage of the bare skin by deciding to pull up her hair into a messy bun, highlighting it. She catches him staring at the column of her neck, sending him a challenging look.

 

She pointedly inserts herself into the conversation on breakfast pancakes the dwarfs beside him are having, stating, “Jam on waffles. Thoughts?”

 

“That’s how they trick you into eating fruit,” Ethan, one of the boys, whispers conspiratorially and some of them gasp, like he just revealed all the secrets in the worlds.

 

“Well, I _like_ fruit,” Reese declares proudly and Clarke high-fives her.

 

She’s midway in a discussion with the small girl about strawberries vs. apples when she catches Bellamy’s gaze once again, his eyes unconsciously lingering on her lips for just a second before quickly darting back up to her eyes. They’re sitting way too close for a platonic couple of acquaintances, and she knows it. But she also likes it, and that’s worse, because that means Octavia might be right.

 

He swallows tightly, and his hands don’t leave his lap the rest of the lunch until the parents come to pick their children up. She would call it a win, if only she wasn’t so disappointed.

 

.

 

She meets Wells (the guy from the kitten videos who’s really wholesome) in the library so he can help her with a project for her Gender, Power and Privilege course, since he’s majoring in Women’s studies and Clarke surprisingly is a little undereducated about all three, since, you know, Arkadia is 99% percent white and she grew up on the other side of power, incredibly privileged.

 

(Bellamy isn’t on shift, or isn’t on shift at the library at least, and she can’t help but note she’s a little disappointed he isn’t.)

 

“This all just makes me feel like an incredibly huge asshole,” Clarke sighs after an hour and a half, three slides in on her powerpoint and in the middle of an existential crisis, as she rubs her temples. She always thought she was a good person, that she’d be a good queen someday, turns out she doesn’t know shit. “For not realizing what extreme privilege I benefit from on a daily basis.”

 

Aside from being a princess and hiding her identity, that is.

 

“No offense, but it’s not about how _you_ feel. What you feel right now is mild discomfort compared to what black people, and especially black women go through on a daily basis,” Wells informs her, pushing his bright blue glasses further on his nose as he plays with his pencil. “It isn’t about you, but it _is_ your problem and it’s important you help change the corrupt system and world we live in.”

 

Clarke nods, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing softly, nervously picking at her thumbnail on her other hand. “I know it’s not your job to educate me, but thank you. I never knew how isolated I really was, you know. Polis is way more diverse than where I come from and, that always made it easier I guess, to not—not actively think about it, to shield myself from it. I know that sounds stupid and selfish and really short sighted—”

 

“Clarke,” he says, a small laugh in the back of his throat as he puts his hand on her forearm. “Relax. I’m not here to judge your whiteness. It’s good, that you want to learn. It’s a start.”

 

He’s so incredibly nice, it’s insane. Smart, too. Would make a great world leader, and she would know. She’s met a lot of them.

 

She stretches a little, scrolling through her presentation one more time, fingernails painted black (courtesy of Monty because he’s more Polis than he’d like to admit). “Since it took us this long to get three slides and there’s a minimum of 20, you mind if I get us some beverages?” She gets up from her chair, taking her wallet out of her purse, eyebrow raised as she offers, “Coffee?”

 

“I’ll take a tea, sure,” he laughs, throaty and warm, putting his hands behind his head as he leans back in his seat and Clarke feels like she’s known him for longer than she has. She sends him a smile before disappearing to the campus coffee shop.

 

When she comes back to library, she almost bumps into the one person she is kind of trying to avoid. “Bellamy,” she notes, dry and he gives her a nod of acknowledgement, taking his hands off her arms after she’s steady enough on her feet.

 

There’s a weird moment when they’re just standing across from each other, exchanging a strangely charged look, both waiting for the other to say something.

 

“Well,” Clarke announces after a moment, making a move to step away from him and go to her and Wells’ studying table. “This was fun.”

 

“You know,” he says, all of a sudden and she sighs as she halts to a stop. “We’re studying Athena in my online class right now. You know she’s the goddess of art?”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, adjusting the cups in her hands so they don’t burn her skin. “Let me guess, she was some sort of royal Goddess? Protector of the king?”

 

Look, Clarke has a pretty high tolerance for assholes. Whether you blame the fact she’s grown up around politicians, or that she gets it from her momma, she just does. Bellamy however, is the kind of infuriating asshole that does it in a way you can’t exactly call him out on it. Which is—frustrating.

 

“No,” he smirks, brown eyes shining with amusement. “Why? You interested in royalty?”

 

She ignores them, neck getting flushed because she hates him so much. Smoothly, she changes the subject. “You have time to take online classes? You know, in between stalking me and your 38 jobs?”

 

He shrugs casually, a curl falling into his eyes, Clarke’s fingers twitching with the urge to brush it away. “The fun part about online classes, no matter how bad they are, I can take them whenever I want. It’s their entire appeal actually.”

 

“Well, thanks for the fun fact,” she nods, eyebrows raised. She makes another try at passing him but he puts his hand on her arm again, hand warm and big and a golden brown, contrasting against her pale skin.

 

“I mentioned it _because_ ,” he adds, pointedly, then more softer, shy, “because she reminded me of you. Goddess of art, and wisdom, really compassionate. I’ve seen some of your drawings, and you’re, you know, also really smart. And the way you were with Madi? She finds it really hard to connect to people, usually.”

 

Clarke swallows tight, cheeks feeling hot as she searches his eyes. Is he serious? Nevermind that when people say something makes them think of you is already heartwrenching on it’s own, but this is Bellamy, her number one hater, comparing her to someone with such—good qualities? It feels like there’s not enough room in her chest for her heart.

 

What is this? What they’re doing? She knows he knows her identity, yet he’s done nothing with the information, hasn’t even told his sister, who he seems to tell everything, anyway. There’s the looks that are just a second too long to be casual, the way even the smallest touch seems to set her entire body on fire, the way she’s trusting him with so much, her entire life, while she doesn’t even know him? Not really?

 

“Bellamy,” she starts, ready to ask, to step out of this weird in between of things, ready to understand, because at her core, that’s always been something she really wanted. To understand people, things. That, and she’s blunt and impulsive sometimes.

 

Suddenly, Wells appears at her side, clearing his throat. He looks too cute, arms crossed over his chest like he could take Bellamy in a fight. One thing Clarke knows for sure is that he’d do a very good job at trying, though. “Is he bothering you, Clarke?”

 

She tries not to laugh, offering his tea to him, as she uses the newly free hand to run it through her wavy hair. “Technically, he is, but I’m used to it.”

 

Bellamy huffs, humoured as he rolls his eyes lightly. “I have to get back to work anyway. You two have fun.” He sends her a nod, just barely glancing at Wells before starting in the direction of his post.

 

Wells eyes the two of them, waits for Bellamy disappears from their view before he lets his shoulders relax. “Isn’t that Octavia Blake’s brother?”

 

“She’s one of my friends, yeah,” Clarke answers absentmindedly as she fixes her gaze on where Bellamy was standing not to long ago. She snaps out of it, turning back to Wells with a light shake of her head. Keeping her voice light, she adds, “You know her?”

 

“From some of Monty’s parties, yeah,” he lightly shrugs, avoiding her gaze. Almost bashful, he admits, “And I hooked up with her friend, one time.”

 

Clarke mock gasps, as they start walking back to their table, nudging him with her elbow. “Who was it?”

 

“Hey, let’s talk about how you’re trying to get into your friend’s brother’s pants first,” he deflects, sitting down and shoving his cup on the table. “That sounds like an incredibly bad porno in the making.”

 

Clarke eyes light up as her brain stops racking itself for answers he won’t give her—it isn’t Octavia, definitely not Jasper because he’s as straight as they get, Monty doesn’t seem like his type, Maya is taken—finding a perfect match. Giddily, “It was Raven, wasn’t it?”

 

She’s glad they’re not actually together, because that’d be all kinds of unfair. Imagine the both of them? Together? Talk about a power couple.

 

He clenches his jaw lightly, pretending not to hear her. “Like I said, you just had a very intense staring match with our college’s very hot security guard, that also happens to be your friend’s brother, in a very public building. Worry about your own love life.”

 

“That does sound like a bad porno in the making,” Clarke finally admits, opting the easy way out as she takes a sip of her coffee. She hisses, because Polis coffee obviously has only two temperatures. Scalding hot, or as cold as the antarctic sea. “So. Why are you and Raven not taking over the world together as we speak?”

 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, obviously uncomfortable discussing his sex-life with her. “She seemed really insistent on it being a one time thing.” Mumbling, he picks at the cardboard sleeve on his cup. “Maybe she didn’t enjoy it as much, or something.”

 

“Sounds more like commitment issues to me,” Clarke tries to encourage him because Raven did seem like the free spirit type of girl, but he just purses his lips, changing the subject once again. “What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“Why aren’t you together with the friend’s hot campus security guard friend? He obviously likes you.”

 

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she tries to push the information to the back of her mind, maybe store it for later so she can analyze it while she’s not being scrutinized by Wells’ gaze.

 

“Seriously, we should come up with an acronym for that.”

 

He sees right through her. “Octavia wouldn’t mind, you know. I don’t know her super well, but she always seems really chill.”

 

So he _doesn’t_ know her that well. Octavia is anything but chill. Still, that isn’t her only reservation, even if it’s a sweet gesture on his part to try and ease her mind. So she smiles, nodding towards the computer. “Instead of discussing our pathetic love lives, how about we talk some more social injustice?”

 

He grins at that, shaking his head a little as he picks his pencil back up. Jokingly, he says, “Ah, yes, love it when you talk equality to me.”

 

.

 

After another one of the squad’s nights out, she crashes at Octavia’s. They’d gone bowling, and ancient squad rules were they had to take a shot every time they didn’t get a strike. Considering this was the first time Clarke had even bowled, it didn’t take long for her to get absolutely plastered. Even after they eased the rules to include no shots after a spare, either.

 

She steps out of her skinny jeans as soon as she crosses the threshold of Octavia’s messy room, getting stuck in her shirt until her friend helps her out of it. She laughs loudly, until Octavia shushes her with a grin, whispering about how her brother has to get up early in the morning. She offers her one of her soft cotton sleep shirts, and Clarke happily obliges, even if it’s a little short on her.

 

She’ll be really sorry about Sinclair and Miller’s backs for having to sleep in their car for the third night in a row in the morning, now she just really needs to pee. Octavia had immediately passed out on her bed as soon as she was changed and Clarke pokes her leg with a finger, but she doesn’t respond. Shit. She’ll have to try and find it on her own.

 

Apparently, she makes too much noise in the hallway because as soon as she finds the bathroom and painfully stubs her toe on the toilet, the lights turn on, startling her.

 

She turns around, dopey smile forming on her face as she realizes it’s Bellamy. “Wow, I’m so glad you’re not a serial killer.”

 

“You okay?” He just sighs, padding over to her and she looks down at her feet, wiggling her toes. With a shrug, she announces, “They’re all still here.”

 

She looks back up at him, and before she knows what compels her, she asks, “How did you find out?” She’s just the right amount of drunk to not care about the little political game they’ve been playing and like, social standards.

 

“What?” he asks, confused as he rubs a hand over his tired face, still squinting at the change of lights as he sinks down on top of the closed toilet seat.

 

Clarke leans back against the edge of the tub, pulling her shirt down so she doesn’t flash him her red lacy panties. That might be a little too much and she’s not that drunk. “You don’t call me princess for nothing.”

 

He snorts, searching her face for a moment before he decides he might as well do this now. “You do know the internet exists, right?”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, running her free hand through her hair. She already feels more sober, talking about serious issues like this. She takes a page from his sister’s prying book. “So you admit it?”

 

He cocks an eyebrow. “Admit what?”

 

“That you stalked me,” she states, corners of her lips curling up victoriously. “You’re a stalker.”

 

“Googling someone does not make you a stalker.” He sighs leaning his head back against the tiled wall as he shakes it lightly. “God, this is so princess diaries.”

 

“Why?” She pushes, wetting her lips as her brow crinkles in confusion.She’s seen the Princess Diaries, more than she’d cared to admit, and she knows what he means. But she needs to know, now, why he was so interested in her life. “Why did you, google me, I mean?”  

 

Hesitation passes on his face, but then he lets out a deep breath. “Well, first of all, two badly disguised middle-aged men follow you around everywhere you go, which is a red flag all by it’s self.”

 

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. She’ll still go to her grave denying she knows those men. He rolls his eyes at her attitude, continuing, “I would’ve let it go. But then, you were hanging around my sister all the time and your backstory was shady, so I basically had to know after that.”

 

Of course, she became friends with the only girl whose brother would literally play makeshift detective and google stalk her friends for the truth. Just to make sure she’s safe because he’s that extra and dramatic. It was the harsh reality of her life.

 

He shrugs, pursing his lips a little as he frowns. “I just figured that maybe you were in the witness protection programme, or were like, part of the mob.”

 

“Google, huh?” Clarke wonder out loud as she trains her gaze on a point just below his chin. Internet will be the downfall of mankind one day.

 

He finally smiles at this and she feels less like an idiot, even if he’s implying just that. “All it took was a reverse image search of your student ID to find it was a cropped photo of you at Garden Tea Party with Angela Merkel.”

 

She scoffs. “I considered going redhead, but I don’t think it’s my color.”

 

A moment of silence passes as Clarke rubs her face, wishing the alcohol would still be having that blissful effect of ignorance on her body. Instead, she feels more clear-headed than ever. She muses, “You know I told Raven?”

 

“You told Raven?” He raises his eyebrows, and dare she say he looks a little offended.

 

“Yeah,” she sighs, playing with the ends of her knotty hair absently “I mean, we were both drunk but I even showed her pictures and everything. She still didn’t buy it.”

 

“Photoshop is really good these days, I don’t blame her,” Bellamy jokes and Clarke shakes her head, self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, without a personal stylist and make-up artist I’m really not all that.”

 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, running a hand over his curls. Bellamy wouldn’t be Bellamy if he didn’t take what she said too seriously. “When I first met you I was so distraught by how pretty you were that I didn’t even introduce myself.” It comes out so incredibly confidently, Clarke’s taken back by the flush on his neck, the way he refuses to meet her eye.

 

“Wow, and then you just casually changed the subject to your sister’s panties?” Clarke laughs casually, but it comes out a little strained. It’s super hot in here all of a sudden.

 

He winces. “That’s me. Smooth as hell.”

 

She chuckles low, meeting his eyes, as she ducks her head, shy all of a sudden, hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck awkwardly. Her shirt rides up just a little, exposing more of her thighs, and she meets his gaze slowly, blue eyes meeting his brown eyes. They’re dark, pupils blown. It’s quiet, so quiet, even though Clarke’s sure he can hear her heartbeat.

 

Until suddenly he’s rising to his feet, ending up in front of her, and it feels quiet, and intimate. He’s standing close, tentatively reaching out to cup the side of her face, smoothing his thumb over her skin.

 

She reaches up to brush a curl from his face, even though it falls right back into place. He exhales, heavily. “So you really are a princess?” The question she’s been dreading finally comes. And she’s a little disappointed, that they’re standing like this, and they have the perfect excuse to stand like this at 3AM on a saturday in the dim bathroom light, and he still won’t kiss her.

 

She wets her lips, feels insecure all of a sudden. “Yes.” She wants to say more, like please, don’t hold it against me, or I’m not _just_ a princess, or something equally dumb but her mouth feels dry and her throat feels tight, too tight to speak.

 

“That sucks,” he says quietly, because of course he does, because he’s Bellamy. She hates that she can’t tell what he’s thinking though, even if she doesn’t particularly feel like talking.

 

So she kisses him. He stiffens at first, pressing his lips to hers, tentative, acquainting himself with the soft touch of her pink lips. She probably tastes like bad beer and nachos, but she doesn’t care. She wanted to taste more of _him_ , feel more of him. Then the thought crosses her mind that he’s so gentle because he doesn’t _want_ to kiss her, and she starts to lean back, panicked.

 

His hand on her face stops her retreat, holding his mouth against hers as she happily parts her lips, sighing softly when their tongues meet. She practically melts against him, as he shifts his head to get even closer and her fingers trail down his chest. She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat when he does something particularly nice with his tongue, which unfortunately seems to get him back to reality.

 

“You’re drunk,” he urges, pulling back, his lips wet and she almost stomps her foot and whines his name like a three year old throwing a temper tantrum, but manages to reel herself in just in time.

 

He’s acting like she’ll regret this in the morning, and she won’t. She know she won’t. Defiantly, she presses. “If I’m sober next time, you won’t stop?”

 

“Next time?” He teases half-heartedly but she tightens her jaw. She’s not in a joking mood because he just left her high and dry and she can’t even do anything about it because his excuse makes sense and he’s too good, way too good. She raises an eyebrow and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his thumb comes up to trace her brow bone gently. Her heart jumps at his tenderness. “Promise.”

 

He leans forward to press his mouth against her forehead, and then casually asks her if she can find Octavia’s room on her own or if she needs help like they didn’t just make-out, and she hums an affirmative, suddenly remembering why she went to find the bathroom anyway. He wishes her goodnight before disappearing, closing the door behind him.

 

She lowers her panties, opens the lid of the toilet and sits down on it. She groans out loud as her fingers come up to touch her mouth absentmindedly, probably still red from kissing. She’s so fucking screwed.

 

.

 

The next morning at breakfast, he’s already gone off to work which is unsurprisingly, a pretty disappointing realisation for Clarke.

 

When she woke up, the first thing she felt was absolute fucking dread because she drunkenly kissed her friend’s brother, but as soon as she came to her senses and remembered the soft way he’d looked at her and she just wanted to do it again.

 

A hungover Octavia takes out two bowls and fills them with Lucky Charms as she texts her boyfriend with her free hand. Clarke stares at her back as she opens the fridge to find the milk, worrying her bottom lip in between her teeth. Nervously, she blurts out, “I kissed you brother last night.” She winches. Fuck.

 

The brunette freezes, before turning around on her heels, a carton of milk in her hand as the door of the fridge falls closed behind her. “You did _what_?” Her face is indecipherable.

 

“Please don’t be mad. I was drunk—and I ran into him, in the bathroom and it just happened. I wanted it to happen, I mean, it wasn’t just an act of convenience. I just—fuck.” She presses her thumb and forefinger into her eye sockets, trying to calm her heart rate. Octavia was her first real friend, and now she was ruining all of it. “Let me start over. I like your brother.”

 

Her jaw ticks, for just a second as she steadily puts down the milk and her phone on the counter in front of her. She puts a hand on her hip, stares her down for a few incredibly uncomfortable seconds, Clarke’s hand automatically reaching up to wrap around her necklace, just in case. “Was it consensual?”

 

“Y-yes,” she stammers, unsure of how to act around her now.

 

“Then good for you,” Octavia states, flipping some hair of her shoulder before filling one bowl with the liquid and pausing above the other. “You want milk with your Charms or not?”

 

“Please,” she answers, dumbfounded as she watches Octavia’s motions, filling the bowl before pushing it over to her, handing her a spoon. Clarke opens and closes her mouth soundlessly. Then settles on, “That’s it?”

 

“What? You wanted me to question you about your intentions with my brother?” She huffs, puts a spoonful of Lucky Charms in her mouth before shrugging as she swallows. “Honestly. From the look on your face every time he so much as smiles, I don’t want to know.” Her grip on her spoon tightens, for just a second then she smiles, blindingly, “Plus, you know I have a black belt, right? I love you, but if you hurt my brother I will use it on you.”

 

“Okay,” Clarke declares, stupidly, because she doesn’t really know what to say. All the times she imagined this conversation, fists were definitely involved. Some crying too, mostly on her part. She’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Warily, she sticks her spoon into her cereal. “And you sure you didn’t poison me while I wasn’t looking?”

 

“Please, poison is not my MO. I’d be much more likely to stab you in your sleep.”

 

Clarke snorts, finally feeling more at ease as Octavia picks her phone back up, smiling at a text message. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I sleep over.”

 

.

 

She’s almost asleep when her phone lights up the darkness, the buzz pulling her from her light slumber. She grits her teeth together, annoyed as she pulls the covers further up to her nose.

 

She stayed over at the Blakes’ late, after helping Octavia with their latest paper. By the time they were finished, it was 1AM and the youngest of the two convinced her to stay over. They’d only taken so long because they were trying to find the right balance between being historically correct and kissing up to Wallace, and had sneaked in a few episodes of Brooklyn 99 in the name of study breaks.

 

Her phone buzzes again, and with a light groan she reaches for it blindly. She swears if it’s a check-up message from Sinclair or Miller, she’s going to politely strangle one of them in the morning. Blinking at the sudden brightness, it takes a second for her eyes to adjust to her screen.

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:08 am _

Clarke

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:09 am _

You up?

 

She bites her lip as she glances over at Octavia, snoring loudly. He probably just came home from his shift at the bar. They hadn’t really seen each other in two whole weeks. He was busy balancing his seven thousand jobs and Clarke had a lot of deadlines, so it added up to one or two quick hellos in passing, and fleeting smiles and promising looks. It hadn’t been very good for her overall health. She didn’t do pining, usually, and here they were. She was pining day in, day out.

 

**CLARKE** **:**

_ 03:11 am _

What if I am?

 

His reply is almost instant, and makes Clarke’s chest flutter, warmth shooting up her belly as she tries to remain as still as possible. Not even a bulldozer could interrupt Octavia’s six to eight hours of sleep, but still.

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:12 am _

I made you a promise didn’t I

 

**CLARKE** **:**

_ 03:13 am _

What about Octavia?

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:14 am _

Way to kill the mood

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:14 am _

She gave us her blessing weeks ago and offered to have her boyfriend design the wedding invitations, I think we’re good

 

**CLARKE** **:**

_ 03:16 am _

What exactly are you asking?

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:18 am _

God, you really are making this much more difficult than it needs to be

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:18 am _

Come to my room

 

Part of her just wants to say something petulant, like you come over to  _ my _ room, but his sister is in here so that would probably be crossing a really weird line and for once she just wants to set her ego aside and not think of any emotion she feels as weakness. Think of it in a clinical way, of how it would ruin her reputation if it went wrong. Even if Bellamy would never spill her secrets to the gossip magazines, even if she  _ knows _ that deep in her bones, it’s still hard to go against everything that’s been instilled in her since birth. She carefully pries the covers of her body, swinging her legs off the bed. 

 

**BELLAMY** **:**

_ 03:20 am _

What I meant is: if you would please be so kind and generous to gather in my humble abode I would appreciate it greatly and be indebted to you forevermore, your royal highness.

 

She considers crawling back into bed and calling it a night, but she’s already padding down the hallway and in front of his room so it’s no use pretending she doesn’t want to be here. She knocks, and before she can knock again, the door already swings opens and seriously? He couldn’t have put on a shirt?

 

Her eyes rake his chest appreciatively, before darting up to meet his eyes, biting down on her bottom lip. He was apparently taking in her bare legs, once again sporting one of Octavia’s sleeping shirts, so she doesn’t feel too guilty about it. He steps aside, to invite her in and she goes inside, admiring the interior of his room.

 

There’s a poster of some history documentary about ancient Rome plastered on his wall, books sprawled everywhere, a standard IKEA painting above his bed, and stuck to his mirror are pictures of him with Octavia, and friends, or both. A quote catches her eye, the paper worn and crinkled, ‘ _ AUT VIAM INVENIAM AUT FACIAM _ ’.

 

“I will either find a way, or make one,” she translates absentmindedly, all too aware of his presence behind her. He raises an eyebrow and she catches it in the mirror. Sheepishly, she admits, “Latin was mandatory at my High School.”

 

“Of course it was,” he says, but he’s smiling and she doesn’t find any judgement on his face when she searches it. He sinks down on his bed, leaning back on his hands as she explores the rest of his room quietly. 

 

“It uh, really helped me after my mom died.” He shares, after he must feel the silence between them has dragged on too long and he thinks she feels awkward. “Back then, it was easy to be angry, at everyone and everything because it wasn’t fair. To think I could do whatever the hell I wanted, without any consequences. It’s why I’m so hard on, O. I don’t want her to make the same mistakes I did.” He sighs, leaning forward on his knees as she settles beside him, fingers gliding over his to lock them together assuringly. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly, and then it’s gone. “This world doesn’t owe us anything. You get what you are given and you have to make the best of it.”

 

“You’ve given her a lot, Bellamy,” Clarke confesses, softly, untangling their fingers to press a hand against his cheek, smoothing away some curls fondly. In some ways, he’s given her more than money or power ever could.

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, probably to stop the tears from coming. Roughly, he admits, “I still wish I could do more.” 

 

She leans her cheek on his shoulder in support, because no matter what she says, he’s still going to feel like he’s never enough. It’s in his DNA. It’s going to take her a lot more time to show him he is enough. She speaks when she feels he’s had enough time to work through his emotions. “I happen to know some Latin—”

 

“Coincidentally,” he cuts in, amused and she presses a kiss to his arm.

 

“Yeah, amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all,” she says, soft. If there’s one thing that kept Octavia from turning into a basket case, it’s the fact that she’s loved by her brother. “Your love for your sister is all she ever needed—ever will need from you.”

 

He squeezes her knee, after he considers it for a moment, and it doesn’t fix anything, but it’s a start. He clears his throat after a second, almost awkwardly.

 

“So,” he states, casually, but she feels the tension radiate off him. “You and Wells… not a thing?”

 

“Definitely not a thing.” She shifts her head on his shoulder. His eyes look clearer now, less troubled, just the faintest trace of tears in them. Her brow crinkles, a slow smirk creeping up her face. “Wait. Were you jealous of him?”

 

“I wasn’t,” he defends himself, sharply. He huffs at the memory. “He just came over all territorial and ready to stake a claim, or whatever.”

 

Wells, territorial. The guy was way too sweet and personally evolved to ever think of anyone as property, but she figured now wasn’t the time to start discussing her friends.

 

She hums skeptically, but doesn’t push it. “What about you, you even even have time for a girlfriend?” They’ve only kissed once, and neither one has even admitted their feelings, but she’s already talking about Defining The Relationship.

 

It’s a commonsensical question really. Between being a security guard by day, a bartender by night on his days off, a soccer coach on some free evenings and the weekend, and taking online community college classes, he was spread a little thin.

 

“I think I could squeeze you in,” he teases and her heart lurches at the genuine look in his eyes, nudging her with his elbow lightly, then turns more serious. “Besides, once Octavia graduates, we’ll have a little more room to breathe.”

 

It’s quiet for another moment, because he doesn’t seem to want to make the first move and she doesn’t quite know how, so they’re stuck in this weird, tense feeling of want.

 

“Can you, you know,” he swallows thickly, avoiding her gaze. “Date us commoners?”

 

“Oh yeah, peasants are allowed inside my royal castle tower every other tuesday,” she deadpans, sending him a pointed look as she lifts her head. Of course it’s more complicated than that, but she’d like the chance to find out if they’d be good together before ruining his life with royal protocols. 

 

“I can work with that,” he chuckles, low and she rolls her eyes. “Glad you can fit me into your busy schedule.”

 

He reaches out to tap her on the nose, softly and his eyes are so warm and tender she almost dies on the spot. “Well, only for you. My favorite.”

 

Her heart warms and she can’t help but smile. “How about you make good on that promise now?”

 

His lips are on hers before she can close her eyes. It’s soft at first, just a peck. Then she presses her hands down on his shoulders firmly, opening her mouth under his, until he’s sucking at her lips, her tongue, until their mouths are moving together messily, desperate to get closer.

 

Soon, he moves them further onto his bed, and she tugs on the bottom of her shirt to pull it over her head. He blinks at her chest, for just a moment, before he ducks his head for another kiss, trailing down her face, jaw, neck.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he mutters against her throat and she hums affirmatively, squirming under his mouth. “Y-yeah, me too.”

 

He pulls back, mouth pink and wet from kissing too hard. “Especially when you were wearing that stupid little skirt around a bunch of five year olds.” He runs a finger over her clavicle, and she remembers him staring back then, and her abdomen clench anticipatory at the contact. “You about killed me.”

 

She makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat as his hands move over the slope of her hips, resting on her waist as he sits back to admire the view. “Every time you came over here—fuck. I made up so many dumb excuses to be in the living room.”

 

She pulls him back to her mouth, needy for more, guiding his hand up her stomach to her chest. She wants his hands on her, everywhere. “And how you would pull up your hair in the library during long study sessions?” He presses a kiss to her pulse point, then moves down to do the same to her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. “Man, I would stare at the back of your neck for hours.”

 

“Stop,” she groans, neck flushed in embarrassment as she presses her thighs together to relieve some of the pressure between them. She can’t believe everything that’s coming out of his mouth right now. All this time, he just wanted her as badly as she unconsciously wanted him. “You’re being way too nice.”

 

“You want me to be less nice?”

 

She flips them over, straddling him as she presses her mouth down his chest, one hand snaking down to toy with the band of his underwear. Muttering against his skin, she confesses, “I made up a lot of dumb excuses to go into the kitchen, or to the bathroom, just in the hope of running into you.”

 

She moves back up to his face, smoothing his curls away from his face as she kisses the underside of his jaw. God, she really, really likes him. And she wants to make him feel good, too. “Every time I had a long study session, I would see you in that uniform once, and it would be all I could think about for the rest of the day.” 

 

He leans up to meet her for a searing kiss, but she breaks it off after a second, pulling back to look at him, hair slightly framing their faces, hands supporting her weight. She softens her voice. “And I mean. Look at you. Basically every time you so much as flexed a muscle I was imagining us like this.”

 

He cups her face, pulling her down back to him, connecting their lips, much more gently than before. Her throat tightens at his tenderness, lips parting just enough to taste him with her tongue, drawing back to meet his gaze.

 

She leans on her elbow, putting her hand on top of his chest, his heart beating strongly under it. He brushes a finger over her brow, fond. “Shut up.”

 

She laughs, loudly, but he silences her with a kiss, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. There’s not much laughing after that.

 

.

 

“Oh God,” Octavia mutters, face scrunching up at the sight of them as soon as she comes downstairs. “I take it back. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it. Blessing withdrawn.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies skillfully, putting her coffee cup up to her mouth to hide her smile. Octavia is bluffing. Sure, Bellamy is just wearing some grey joggers and her hair might look like she hasn’t brushed it in six days but she doesn’t have any  _ substantial _ proof.

 

Her eyes narrow dangerously, knuckles turning white as she balls her hands into fists, and Clarke knows she’s about to regret lying to a Blake running low on sleep and in their full morning short-temper glory. “That’s not  _ my _ t-shirt you’re wearing, sweetie.”

 

Temporarily turning away from the pancakes he’s baking, Bellamy takes a good look at Clarke, eyebrows raising, then nods at his sister as if to say ‘touché’. 

 

The blonde flushes, pulling on the hem of her t-shirt, or apparently Bellamy’s t-shirt, uncomfortably. It had been a little shorter than she remembered, if she was honest. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed because Bellamy was too busy pestering her with kisses, stupidly affectionate, even in the morning.

 

“You look fine,” Bellamy insists, pressing a kiss to her cheek and Octavia scowls. “God, you two are already annoying the shit out of me.”

 

Clarke just smiles unapologetically, climbing on top of one of the stools in front of their kitchen island, gratefully sipping on her coffee. She hasn’t been this happy in a while and not even one of Octavia’s cranky morning moods is going to put a damper on it. She’s watched her suck face Lincoln way too many times for her to be this petty about it.

 

Her smile fades after a few moments though, fingering her necklace absently. Her mother is going to absolutely murder her. Not only did she not leave immediately when she found out Bellamy knew and she could no longer claim ignorance, she’s honestly not going to like her dating an American Citizen when her mother had been wanting to set her up with Finn, son of the famed Duke and Duchess Collins, since they were six years old.

 

If Bellamy notices anything, he doesn’t say so, serving them both a plate of his pancakes, with blueberry smiley faces and all. Octavia scarfes down the food in record time, before muttering something about a shower and disappearing upstairs.

 

They eat in silence for a second, but swallowing the last bite of his pancakes, he nudges her with his elbow. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, really,” she retorts, leaning her hand on her face as she pushes the food around on her plate absentmindedly.

 

“You sure?” He frowns then, realisation dawning in on his face. “You having second thoughts?”

 

“No, it’s not that, at all,” she opposes confidently, patting his thigh. She blows some lose strands from her face, exhaling loudly. “It’s just… my mother.” She actually cringes. “Thinking about how I’m going to break the news to her.”

 

“How about about one of those t-shirts,” he mentions nonchalantly, slinging an arm around her shoulder lazily. “Like my daughter went to the US and all she got me was this lousy t-shirt.” He affectionately kisses her temple a few times, smacking loudly and making her laugh as she pushes his face away. “But _ instead _ you bring me and I tell them their daughter went to the US and all  _ she _ got was this lousy boyfriend.”

 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she deadpans, leaning into him as his hand rubs up and down her arm, free hand ripping some of her pancakes off with his fork, shoving them in his mouth.

 

After some more silence and serious scowling on Clarke’s part, he lifts a shoulder, indifferent. He then offers, mouth full, “We could keep it a secret.”

 

“And you, Bellamy Blake, certified Broody Person who can’t keep his hands off me and it’s only been a day, would be happy with that arrangement?” He’s always been tactile, but it’s been worse since they kissed. Not that she’s complaining.

 

He looks like he’s about to protest, but then she makes a point out of looking at his hand wrapped around her arm and his mouth thins into a tight line. She snorts. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

 

She takes another sip of her coffee, wrapping her hands around it as she bites on the inside of her cheek in thought. Eventually, she sighs. “It’s not even about if we could, because I’ve kept boyfriends and girlfriends from her and my dad before. It’s just that I don’t want to.”

 

“Wow, and you say I’m hung up on you after only a day.”

 

“Shut up,” she rolls her eyes, but there’s not really any detectable heat to it, because she’s too busy feeling conflicted. She really likes him, but she loves her people. One day, she’ll be queen. She doesn’t want her love life to have an effect on that whatsoever. It will have, if her parents or their stupid council don’t agree with the person she is dating. In another life, she would’ve definitely taken a stand and told them to go fuck themselves, but not this one. Not when she has her people to worry about.

 

“Clarke, I’m not sure what you’re expecting from me here,” he sighs heavily, moving his arm to the back of her stool as he leans back to search her face. His brown eyes are full of doubt. He’s never selfish, not with the people he cares about. “I mean—I like my life. My friends and Octavia are here. I love my dumb uncoordinated kids. I even like my jobs most of the time.” His free hand fumbles with the drawstring of his joggers. “I’m no Prince Charming.”

 

“I just want you to be with me,” she replies reassuringly, putting a hand to the side of his face. It’s the truth. She wants to be selfish, just this once. “That’s all I ask. If that’s what you want too.”

 

He nods, and she swallows thickly, hand drooping down his face to rest on the junction of his shoulder and neck. She fixes her gaze there, searching for the right words, because it’s not like they’re in love and they won’t survive if they break up now. She’s not used to listening to her heart (it feels right with him, in Polis, it’s good, between the two of them) instead of her head (life will be much more difficult with him then any of the candidates on her mother’s list). But. She  _ wants _ to see where this goes, and if he’s in, then so is she. 

 

“No pressure, okay? If in a while we decide we really want to do this, we’ll go public and we’ll deal with everything else. Together, yeah?”

 

He rests his cheek on top of her hand briefly, then nods, once and it feels a lot like the start of something. “Together.”

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wasnt quite sure about the ending, but it was dragging on and on and i kept writing bullshit scenes. 
> 
> the bullshit scenes may be uploaded at a different time if im in the mood to organize them and when i can think clearly and am not stressed about the blorke reunion. my hopes are up way too high and i just know that with our luck theyre probably only gonna blink at each other and then be seperated for the rest of the season or whatever. jason hates us like that lmfao......... and YET i would still sacrafice my firstborn to watch seven more seasons of platonic 'this is not sexual tension' blorke and their angsty adele music video gazes. ANYWAY now everyone has stopped reading.... becho is endgame, change my mind


End file.
